


Suspension Bridge

by Yergink



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Dancing, M/M, Murder, Threats of Violence, cost/benefit analysis of killing your lover, the inherent eroticism of being enemies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25799635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yergink/pseuds/Yergink
Summary: And then, Maxwell falters. Because just then, something cold comes to rest against his throat, and it only takes a beat for him to recognize what it is. It’s that scrap of flint tied to a stick that Wilson keeps trying to pass off as a proper razor. The man’s arm tightens where it’s slung over Maxwell’s shoulder, scraping the blade against the skin.“Oh, would you look at that!” Wilson exclaims, feigning surprise. “It seems like I must’ve forgotten to put this away. My mistake, I assure you.” He lilts to the side as if to purposefully allow Maxwell’s dagger to press lightly against his waist. “Shall we?”Or: Is there anything more intimate than holding your lover at knifepoint?
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 52





	Suspension Bridge

**Author's Note:**

> This ended up pretty similar in tone to [Sharper Blade](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25363039).

Spring is miserable.

Winter may be desolate and grating and horribly, unbearably cold, but spring in the Constant brings an unending rain, mud, and a pervasive stench of rot that hangs heavy in the air like a smothering blanket.

On top of it all, spring brings hunger. Wilson’s so terrible hungry. The rain hasn’t let up in days, and he and Maxwell have been rationing out their remaining stash of shriveled, near spoiled berries for the majority of that time. The rabbit holes had collapsed in the wet, and what little meat they _had_ managed to acquire was hung up on their drying racks, no nearer to being jerky than it was when they’d put it up.

Currently, the two men are cramped together under Wilson’s lean-to, which is his because he made it, no matter how many times Maxwell insists otherwise. The rain beats at the threadbare roof, dripping through it on occasion and puddling beneath them, making everything soggy and squishy and awful.

They’re pressed together so their arms are touching. It’s almost uncomfortably close, but they already share food, and a tent, and in the case of particularly long winter’s nights even each other’s body heat, so really, what’s one more thing.

“Say,” Maxwell says within a slow breath, tilting his head towards the man sat beside him. “Do you know how to dance?”

Wilson claws his hands around his bone-thin arms, shuddering and blinking as water drips onto his head through the roof of the lean-to and trickles down his face.

“Have you gone deaf?” Maxwell frowns. “I asked--”

“I heard you,” Wilson snaps, shifting to turn his back to the other man. The thrum of the rain fills the gap in the conversation, and he slides his sunken heels through the mud, pulling his legs up to his chest. A bolt of lightning makes them both blink, and Wilson flinches at the thunder that follows. Then, he sighs, resting his head against his knees. “Yes, I-- My mother made me take lessons, years ago.” He’s quiet, for a moment. “I was never much good, to be honest.”

“You can do an old-fashioned box step at least?” Maxwell pries, nudging him. He’s trying to make conversation to avoid thinking about how much he wants a smoke. God, he could use a cigar right about now. Something to calm the nerves and soothe the ache that the damp has set into his bones.

“I did the foxtrot at a wedding,” Wilson says. He bites idly at a hangnail. “Can’t remember whose.”

If Wilson is honest, he’s finding it a bit difficult to remember much of anything, at the moment. The shadows are being particularly loud again, and his eyes dart around the stretch of their camp, trying to make them out the shape of them on the water-darkened grass.

Meanwhile, Maxwell cranes his neck back, peeking up at the sky. “Well, fancy that. I think it’s clearing up.”

And it was, more or less. The weather here moved fast, and in only a matter of seconds, after days of a nonstop downpour, the rain finally peters off. The sky is still gray, but the clouds drift quickly, and Wilson greets the sun like a long lost friend, grinning and turning his face to it.

They both stand, cold and achy from the damp, stretching their limbs and wringing water from their sleeves. Wilson bolts off to the tent, digging around for a set of dry clothes to change into while Maxwell sets his shoes aside to dry.

His stomach knots, but he knows there’s not enough food left for him to be eating it nonchalantly. Spring has just barely begun, and they’re already so lacking in supplies. They’d scraped through winter by the skin of their teeth which left no time to prepare for the hardships the change of season would bring.

There simply aren’t enough supplies for the two of them, Maxwell thinks, frowning. Wilson clearly didn’t know how to provide for more than himself. And even if he would whisper late-night promises of getting them both through this, Maxwell knows better than to put his faith in empty words. It takes a liar to know a liar, after all.

It would be easier, he thinks, a quiet idea taking seed, if it were just him. The giants of the season could be avoided, and the constant downpour was more of a mild nuisance to him, compared to Wilson’s complete breakdown from the lack of sun. The darkness weakens the mind, and Wilson was no exception, jolting awake with nightmares nearly every time he slept and glancing to the shadows in paranoia each time evening fell.

Wilson was slipping, and if he fell too far, he was sure to take Maxwell down with him. And there was only one thing to do about it.

Glancing to check if the other man was still in the tent, Maxwell draws nightmare fuel from his coat and gathers it between his fingers, letting it pool in his palm. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, willing it to take shape. Not into a sword this time, but something smaller, something more discreet. When he opens his eyes, his fingers are wrapped around the handle of a sort of dagger. It wavers and rests heavily in both his hand and his mind, the same way the sword does, but this blade is much more easily pocketable. Maxwell slides it into his sleeve.

He approaches the tent quietly, listening to Wilson shuffle about inside. He’s not paying attention. Vulnerable. A perfect chance to strike. But Maxwell hesitates. Because he’s suddenly thinking of moments shared in that tent, and for that brief flash of time his cold heart thaws. And then, Wilson is leaving the tent, freshly dressed in a shirt and slacks that smell faintly of beefalo from having been stored with their blankets. Maxwell hides the dagger before the other man can see it.

Wilson smiles, reaching to take one of Maxwell’s hands in his own and pulling him into the tent. “Come on. Go ahead and change and we can call in an early night.”

Shaking himself from meaningless affection is more difficult than Maxwell had anticipated. He smiles a shark smile and lets himself be led into the night, deciding to figure out his plan of action later.

The following day, Maxwell awakes to the sound of clatter outside the tent.

He exits to investigate, only to find that Wilson appears to be battering away at one of his _projects_ again. Maxwell rolls his eyes and approaches the fridge. The scientist has too much manic energy when it comes to his nonsense machines, and it’s too early in the morning to deal with it.

After fishing out a few stale carrots, Maxwell leans against the fridge and watches Wilson work. He can’t even tell what the gadget is supposed to be, although if he asks, he’s sure Wilson will just insist that it isn’t finished yet.

It’s a phonograph. With a beefalo horn mounted as the bell and a bee stinger needle, sat atop a wooden box and spun with gears. Maxwell scowls at the sight of it. “Why are you building that?”

Feigning ignorance, Wilson keeps adjusting the needle as if he’s not heard Maxwell speak. The magician clears his throat, only after which the other man glances to him and shrugs. “What, this? I dug up an old record from a grave a few days ago. Figured we might as well have a way to play it.”

Maxwell scoffs dismissively. The stupid scientist has gotten himself an awful habit of grave-robbing. And just looking at the phonograph makes him uneasy, even as jury-rigged as it is. He’s content to just leave Wilson to his business when a thought clicks in his mind. A thought very much related to the dagger still hidden in his sleeve.

“...Is it finished?” He asks.

“Just putting the last touches on it,” Wilson says, wrapping a sheet of spider silk around the arm to keep it attached. “Here we go.” He seems proud of his creation, like a parent would a child. Wilson treats all his machines like that. Maxwell doesn’t understand it. Although, he doesn’t think that he even has the capacity to care for something like a child anymore.

Wilson digs the record out from a chest, wiping it clean with a patch of silk before placing it delicately onto the turntable. He clicks the machine on, and, surprisingly, it works. Scratchy music drifts out, somewhat muted by the odd shape of the horn, but music nonetheless.

It’s not ragtime, luckily. Maxwell thinks he may have smashed the entire damn machine if it had been. No, it’s an upbeat jazzy song that he doesn’t recognize, to which Wilson begins snapping along to. And it dawns on Maxwell that this very well may be the opportunity he’s been looking for.

He can feel the dagger hilt press against the crook of his elbow as he holds one arm against his back. Maxwell dips into a light bow, outstretching his other hand. “May I have this dance, then?”

Wilson eyes the hand as if it might bite him. “What’s this all about?” he asks incredulously, but he puts his hand down into Maxwell’s open palm anyway.

“You said you could dance, is all. I’m putting you up to it.”

Wilson’s hands are all callouses, Maxwell notices as he threads their fingers together and pulls the other man closer. They’re rough and hardened from his time spent here, fingernails jagged and short, the edges of his thumb crusted with dried blood from where he’d bitten too deep. Even while Maxwell’s own hands are a bit leathery from age, his veins prominent and fingers knobby, they are still delicate, as dapper as a gentleman’s should be.

He puts his other hand around Wilson’s waist, feeling the edge of the fuel dagger cold against his wrist. Not allowing himself hesitation, he angles his wrist, elegantly sliding the dagger from his sleeve and into his grip with practiced ease.

And then, Maxwell falters. Because just then, something cold comes to rest against his throat, and it only takes a beat for him to recognize what it is. It’s that scrap of flint tied to a stick that Wilson keeps trying to pass off as a proper razor. The man’s arm tightens where it’s slung over Maxwell’s shoulder, scraping the blade against the skin.

“Oh would you look at that!” Wilson exclaims, feigning surprise. “It seems like I must’ve forgotten to put this away. My mistake, I assure you.” He lilts to the side, as if to purposefully allow Maxwell’s dagger to press lightly against his waist. “Shall we?”

The magician realizes he may have been too hasty in this decision, because the message Wilson is broadcasting is clear. Even if Maxwell managed to stab him, retribution would be instantaneous. He remembers seeing a bleeding line over Wilson’s cheek a while ago, where the razor had slipped while he’d been shaving. He tries not to think of the gouge it could cut across his own skin and grits out, “Certainly.”

With that, Wilson steps backwards, forcing Maxwell to lead. They turn and sway, and Wilson was right about not being very good. Maxwell grips the other man’s hand tight, doing what he can to force them to stay on beat, but it isn’t easy.

“You seem surprised,” Wilson says, as if he weren’t holding a knife to Maxwell’s throat at that moment. “Although, I can’t imagine why. You weren’t exactly covert.”

“You saw me craft the fuel,” Maxwell realizes, narrowing his eyes. Wilson shrugs.

“Perhaps. Or maybe I’ve just become attuned to the sense of danger. That’d be your fault, if so.” Maxwell thinks the blade moves in just a smidge closer. He turns them into a spin, sidestepping with the music and looping Wilson around him.

“You’re insane, Higgsbury, do you know that?” Maxwell spits as they spin. He cranes his head to avoid allowing the blade to nick him through the motion.

Wilson cackles, baring his teeth in a grin as Maxwell’s grip on his hand tightens and pushes him back. “Am I? I hadn’t quite noticed.” He tips his weight, forcing Maxwell to drop him into a dip, hanging on with his hand curled around the back of the taller man’s neck. Like this, the tip of the blade nips into the skin, cold and threatening and drawing a bead of blood. Maxwell barely breathes then, waiting until he pulls Wilson back to his feet before allowing himself to inhale. The cut stings.

“I know you think I’m some sort of idiot,” Wilson drawls. “And that you’re so very clever in turn.”

When they step back, Maxwell purposefully stomps on Wilson’s feet, pressing his heels in and making the man wince and hiss in a breath. “It’s not a matter of thinking it. You’ve proved your own stupidity plenty of times.”

Not the brightest idea to insult a man with a knife to your throat, but Maxwell is feeling particularly daring, his adrenaline spiking as their dance continues. Although, the comment does little more than get him a laugh as Wilson lets himself be spun.

“It’s in your favor. I’m stupid enough to stay with you,” Wilson answers, teasing the other man with a smug look decorating his face. Meanwhile, Maxwell is barely able to enjoy the reprieve from having the threat of death at his neck before the blade returns to rest just above his collarbone as their hands find each other’s bodies again.

“I suppose it may be,” Maxwell answers when their eyes meet again.

They turn and step in time with a nonexistent beat, and Maxwell’s heart thunders like a spring storm in his chest. “You know, I think it’s bullshit. You don’t have it in your heart to kill me,” he chances as their steps bring them closer together. “You’re the one who kissed me first, after all.”

Wilson hums, and as their dance begins to close and they draw together, chest to chest, he rests his forehead against Maxwell’s shoulder. “You may think so,” he mumbles into the fabric. “But you’ve seen firsthand what I’ve done to survive.”

The disc skips into the outro, the melody growing softer. Maxwell feels the bite of the blade at his throat and tightens his grip on the dagger, jamming the point farther into Wilson’s side. His pulse is racing, the world blurring down to just the music, their steps, and the specter of death waiting for a final blow. The music squeaks, and he stares down into Wilson’s eyes with a taut, unyielding expression. Everything seems sharper, somehow. Like he can feel the swell of each breath in his chest individually, like nothing could matter but what the man before him does next.

With elation, Maxwell thinks this must be what it feels like to be afraid for his life.

With elation, Wilson thinks this must be what it feels like to fall in love.

In the end, only one of the men refuses to fancy himself a coward. As the music begins to fade out and their steps slow to a halt, Maxwell stabs the dagger into Wilson’s side with barely a moment of hesitation, jerking away in anticipation of the razor. It ends up being unnecessary though, because the tool simply falls to the ground as Wilson staggers backwards, clutching at the wound and doubling over to his knees in the mud.

The magician puts a hand against his neck, feeling nothing more than a mere scratch under his fingers. He humphs. “You didn’t have the heart for it after all,” he says coldly, glaring down in triumph. Wilson groans, fingers clawing in the dirt.

“Didn’t think you’d actually stab me,” he hisses through his teeth. “God, I wish you’d picked something swifter.”

“Swift enough, I think,” Maxwell answers, leaning down to cup Wilson’s face in one hand and running his thumb across the span of his cheek before straightening back up and adjusting his lapel. He smooths the fabric where Wilson had been hanging onto it, flattening the wrinkles. “Pull it out. You’ll bleed out quicker.”

“Can’t even be bothered to do it yourself?” Wilson squints up at him, laughs, then winces from the pain doing so causes. His hands are gripped around the dagger handle, and he grits his teeth before extracting it, tossing it to the side where it bloodies the grass. “Can’t even be mannered enough to kiss me after burying the knife. Come on, Max, let me die in your arms. I thought you had a flair for the dramatic.”

Maxwell rolls his eyes. “You’re so needy.” But he kneels down beside Wilson anyway. He pulls the man into his arms, letting his back rest against his chest and trying not to be too bothered by the blood staining his suit. They sit like that for a few moments, silent, listening to the drip of rainwater off the trees.

“When should I expect to be back?” Wilson asks. His words are whispered and rough.

“By summer, most likely. Once I’ve gotten sick of insulting the pigs and need an easier target.”

Despite himself, Wilson chuckles, though it comes out as more of a cough than anything. “You’re an absolute bastard,” he rasps, leaning back against Maxwell’s shoulder, lacking the strength to hold his head up.

Feeling short on words, Maxwell just says, “I know."

Wilson’s head turns, searching, and Maxwell complies with what he knows the dying man wants. He kisses him, meeting chapped, dry lips and cutting off the rasp coming from them. It’s brief, but Wilson almost manages a smile when they part before resting his head against Maxwell once more and going quiet.

The magician sits there, in the still-wet dirt and waits. Waits even after Wilson’s gone still. Somehow, it doesn’t feel right to just get up and leave him, but he supposes there’s little else to do. Maxwell stands, laying Wilson down in the grass gently. His eyes find the phonograph again.

With one, careless motion, he knocks the machine to the ground and turns his back as it crashes and breaks.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the first time I've written anything Maxwil related and it's definitely a bit different than most of my writing. I wanted to try my hand at it cause I've got some Choice thoughts about how this relationship would work. Hope it was enjoyable!
> 
> [My tumblr](http://yergink.tumblr.com/)


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